


Incandescent

by Phoebe_Hunter



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Epic Bromance, Friendship, I'm Sorry, M/M, No Smut, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-12
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-20 21:04:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2443106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoebe_Hunter/pseuds/Phoebe_Hunter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I hope you don’t expect me to pine, Argent,” Peter says. “I’m much too good looking to pine.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Incandescent

**Author's Note:**

> This started off as “Five Times Chris Argent Didn’t Say “I Love You” and One Time He Did” and then evolved into this. I have a bazillion young Petopher headcanons and this is the one that makes my heart hurt the most...
> 
> ...I'm not doing a great job of selling this, am I? :p 
> 
> No smut, I am sorry. On the upside, I have another young Petopher fic in the works which is basically *only* smut, so it all balances out in the end. 
> 
> This starts off relativel happy, but it is not a very happy story. If you want it to be happy, stop reading at the end of the third scene. Then all can be well in the world and everything can be shirtlessness and sunshine. 
> 
> The tags basically warn you of everything there is to be warned about. There is a description of the death of a parent, and a focus in one scene on the emotional reaction of a character to that death, so please don't read if that's going to be triggering for you. 
> 
> Con-crit is very welcome and I thrive on comments and kudos. :)
> 
> If you want to come and ramble about Petopher/prompt me/watch me obsessively reblog Ian and JR being adorable/yell at me for writing this fic, I am here on Tumblr: [silverintheblood]()

The traditional Beacon Hills victory celebration; sprawled on the damp grass looking up at the starlit sky through the cracks in the interlaced branches above them. Peter has an arm wrapped around Chris’ shoulders like it belongs there, his long legs crossed in front of him. The firelight puts a wicked spark in his blue eyes and there’s bourbon on his breath as he turns his head to murmur something sarcastic against Chris’ ear.

It smells like spring but the night breeze is sharp with the memory of winter. Peter’s bare forearm is warm against the back of Chris’ neck. Peter always runs a little hot. In the same way that Peter always likes to stay a little in the shadows, a little off centre, the firelight pooling around his boots with the rest of him shrouded in shadow. Most people don’t notice that about Peter because Peter tends to pull everything into orbit around him and it’s hard to think of him an anything but the centre of attention.

The tree trunk at Chris’ back has him feeling every one of his bruises. And maybe one of his ribs is cracked. Maybe. Peter must hear his breath hitch in discomfort.

“Are you all right?” he says, voice pitched low.

The words almost tumble straight out of Chris’ mouth. It’s not the warmth of the liquor or the sharpness of the adrenaline. It’s not even the fatigue that has his hands trembling and everything blurring a little at the edges. It’s the way Peter laughs like everything’s a joke between the two of them, the way Peter smiles when he thinks nobody’s watching, the weight of Peter’s arm around his shoulders.

_I love you._

Which is a fucking catastrophe, but Chris is too bone-weary to think about that.

“I’m just tired.” _It could save your life one day_. _Don’t you drop that bow, boy._ “Gerard is acclimatising me to sleep deprivation.” A boot in his ribs. _Never let your guard down._

“Your family is delightful.”

Chris would get more than a broken rib if Gerard saw him, sleepy and languorous next to Peter, trusting that Peter will sense a threat, trusting that _Peter_ isn’t a threat. If Gerard saw Peter’s arm around him, Peter’s head close to his.

 _Never_ let your guard down. Never…

Chris’ eyes flutter open. Peter’s t-shirt is soft against his cheek, the weight of Peter’s arm steady around his shoulders. His nostrils are full of the spice of Peter’s cologne. “Sorry.” Chris sits up. Everyone else remaining is in a similar state of semi-stupor. Stilinski and Claudia have managed to fall asleep curled up next to one another, hands entwined.  

Chris feels the chuckle vibrate through Peter’s chest. “You’re adorable, Argent. Even if you do drool in your sleep.”

-

It was an accident. A stupid, innocuous word for blood and flesh and _tearing_ , for the scent of disinfectant and acrid rasp of death against the back of Chris’ throat. _I was trained for this_. To watch a nightmare through glass, the silver sharpness of a scalpel, the anonymous nurses in their bloody scrubs.

“I’m going for a smoke.”

Gerard’s mouth tightens. Chris’ knuckles itch.

The queue for the payphone is three people deep. Chris shreds the handkerchief in his pocket while he waits and counts the freckles on the back of the neck of the woman in front of him. Peter picks up on the second ring.

“It’s me.” Chris has his fingers wrapped in the cord of the phone, knotting it and unknotting it.

“What’s happened?”

“There was an accident.”

Peter beats him to the rooftop. His boots are unlaced and his hair is still damp. He offers Chris his cigarette and Chris takes a long drag.

“Do you need to talk about it?”

“No.”

Chris smokes in silence for a while. Peter doesn’t say anything, just leans back against the railing and stares into the middle distance.

“I was too far away. I couldn’t have gotten there in time. I tried but I—”

Chris can’t vomit. Gerard will smell it on his breath. The nausea rises anyway, borne up by the coppery smell of blood and the sudden stink as the claws had driven deep into his mother’s stomach. The sweat is cold on his forehead and his throat closes, squeezing the breath from his lungs. The cigarette slips through his fingers.

“Argent.” Peter’s fingers close around his bare wrists. “Argent, look at me.”

She had been so fragile, in the end. Blood and skin and bones like anyone else, her hand limp in Chris’ in the back of the car, blood on her lips. _You have to be brave, Chris. For Kate._ And suddenly it’s Kate’s hand in his, Kate’s long blonde hair soaked with crimson, Kate’s smile cracking over broken teeth. The world goes black at the edges and blurs.

“Christopher!”

Peter’s eyes are very blue in a world gone grey. Peter presses their foreheads together, his hands still on Chris’ wrists. “You’re going to be all right.” Peter’s breath is warm against Chris’ face.

Not _it’s going to be all right._ Because it won’t be.

And it isn’t.

-

“Fuck!” The water is freezing _._ Peter just laughs as Chris emerges, spluttering, and pushes his sopping hair out of his face. The summer sky is scattered with clouds and the sunlight sparkles off the water. Peter looks down at him, barefoot with his jeans riding low on his hips. Shirtless and smirking and…incandescent, the noon sun behind him like a halo.

“You’ll pay for that.” Chris grabs the edge of the jetty.                         

“Promises, promises.”

“Give me a hand?”

Peter reaches down and helps Chris out of the water. As soon as there’s wood under Chris’ feet he gets his calf in between Peter’s legs and hooks Peter’s feet out from under him. Peter topples backwards and Chris knows a moment of triumph before Peter’s hand closes around his ankle and _yanks_.

They go under the water in a thrashing tangle of limbs. And if there’s a spontaneous and extremely undignified water fight, well, there’s nobody there to see them. They end up lying side by side on the jetty in the sun, waiting for their clothes to dry.

“I hope you don’t expect me to pine, Argent,” Peter says. “I’m much too good looking to pine.”

“I’ll be back.” Chris turns his head to watch the rise and fall of Peter’s bare chest. They stay there until the breeze grows teeth and the shadows start to lengthen, hands not quite touching.

The first time Chris rode behind on Peter’s motorcycle he tried not to hold on too tightly and nearly went flying straight off when Peter took a hairpin bend. He keeps his arms wrapped tightly around Peter’s waist and watches the scenery blur, cheek pressed against the leather of Peter’s jacket.

Peter drops him down the street from his house. “Try not to die.”

“Try not to kill anyone.”

Chris only looks back once. Peter is leaning against the bike, hands in his pockets, the twilight throwing his face into shadow. Peter raises one hand in a salute.

-

Chris collides with Peter on his way out of the coffee shop. Victoria’s latte slips through Chris’ fingers and Peter snatches it out of the air, coffee splashing his hand. Chris’ breath catches in his throat. Peter’s lips curve.

“Hello, Argent.”

_Hello, Argent. I’m Peter Hale. My parents told me to stay away from you. I think we should be friends._

Peter hands Chris the cup of coffee and their fingers brush for a moment. Peter’s eyes find Chris’ wedding ring immediately.

“Congratulations.” There’s glass behind Peter’s eyes, a softness in his voice that Chris has heard before. Just never directed at him. Peter extracts a handkerchief from the pocket of his jeans and wipes the coffee from his fingers. “France obviously lives up to its reputation for romance.”

Chris’ eyes flick to the car and Peter follows his gaze. Allison is in her seat in the back, waving chubby hands and chuckling.

“Well, Argent. _That_ is a surprise.”

There’s a beat of silence. Chris opens his mouth to say something – God knows what – but Talia Hale appears at Peter’s shoulder, a coffee in each hand and a paper bag under her arm, and the words die before they’re born.

“Hello, Chris. Welcome back.” Talia’s gaze weighs and measures him; finds him wanting, no doubt.

“We’re just passing through.”

“In that case, we’ll wish you safe travels.” Talia puts a hand on Peter’s arm and begins to draw him away.

“Give my regards to Mr and Mrs Hale,” Chris says.

Peter turns back, his hair falling into his eyes. “Oh, you hadn’t heard? Talia’s the alpha now.” His smile is too sharp at the edges. “There was an accident.” His eyes catch Chris’ and hold for a moment, and Chris feels the phantom shadow of fingers on his shoulders and warm breath on his face.

Guilt sparks, catches. Chris looks away.

“Who was that?” Victoria asks as he climbs back into the car, accepting her latte with a smile. Chris reaches into the back to brush Allison’s downy hair back from her face. She reaches up to clutch at his fingers.

“Peter and Talia Hale.”

Victoria’s fingers tighten on the steering wheel for a moment.

Chris doesn’t look back. He watches Peter fade to a speck in the rear-vision mirror instead.

-

The scent of disinfectant can’t quite drown out the underlying odour of decay. The whole place is permeated with an air of quiet despair, of expectation. Chris’ boots are too loud on the linoleum. The nurse at reception glares at him when he asks for Peter’s room and her eyes follow him as he opens the door and enters.

Peter is facing the window, gazing out in a mockery of contented repose. His hair is greasy and unkempt – Chris can imagine what he’d have to say about that – and if Peter ever wakes up and discovers who was responsible for the dressing gown he’s wearing there’s going to be hell to pay.

That thought nearly startles Chris into laughter.

“Hello, Hale,” he says. He’s not sure what he’s expecting – a flicker of recognition in those vacant eyes, a sudden shiver of awareness on that blank face – but he doesn’t get it. Peter looks straight through him.

The scars are bad enough. Chris has seen worse.

Chris reaches out, hesitates, and lets his hand drop.

It should be easier to talk to Peter like this – when Chris knows he probably can’t hear, can’t respond with acid on his tongue or malice in his eyes. But something in Chris won’t let him force that intimacy on Peter, won’t let him weigh Peter down with words when Peter can’t turn away, can’t answer back.

Victoria is waiting in the car, sipping her coffee and turning the pages of her novel with manicured nails. Her lips are tight with disapproval but she reaches across to squeeze Chris’ hand, interlacing her fingers with his.

“He’s not going to wake up,” Chris says.

“Would you want him to?”

Victoria already knows the answer to that.

-

Stiles is a breath away from death, standing over Lydia’s limp body. Valack’s laughter echoes around Chris’ head, deep and rough and _awful,_ and he can hear Scott roaring in the distance. Malia and Kira are back to back and bleeding and Liam and Derek are too far away to make it in time.

_One…_

Derek turns his head to look at Stiles, eyes flashing blue, and the awful desperation in his face is as familiar as an old friend.

_Two…_

Stiles’ breath is coming hard, blood splattered across his face.

_Three…_

Peter’s arm goes up, claws extended.

Chris has a clean shot.

He should have said it. Should have said it against Peter’s mouth with bourbon on his breath, should have kissed Peter in the sun by the lake and breathed it against his throat, should have whispered it on the rooftop with his mother dying in the operating theatre below. Should have said it then and should say it now but he _still_ can’t because it lodges in his throat and sticks, half-choking him on something that tastes like death.

So he says _sorry_ instead, like that’s enough.

It’s a perfect shot.

There’s a beat of silence and then all hell breaks loose. Chris shoots and shoots and shoots until he can’t feel anything but the steady rhythm of _aim fire reload aim fire reload aim fire reload_.

Stiles finds him afterwards, still covered in blood. Chris’ hands won’t stop shaking and he’s desperate for a cigarette.

He hasn’t smoked in years.

“Mr Argent?”

“Yes?”

Stiles shoves his hands into his pockets. There’s a hunted wariness in his eyes as he looks at Chris, a flicker of understanding that Chris know he won’t voice.

“When you…”

… _killed him. When I killed him._

“He said,” Stiles continues. “He said…”

Chris’ hands are busy on the crossbow. _Keep moving, boy. It could save your life one day_.

“He said…’you always were a sentimental idiot, Argent.’”

_It could save your life one day._

**Author's Note:**

> You don't hate me any more than I hate myself.


End file.
